In the final scene of Into the Wild, an emaciated and poisoned Chris McCandless lies sprawled out on the floor of his abandoned schoolbus-turned-home, breathing his last breaths on earth. It is an incredibly moving scene. There were clouds, and Chris' Christ-like beard. I cried as I watched him die because I knew it could be me. He ran off to chase dreams of Alaska and ended up starving to death. Alaska never moved me, but I have chased a lot of stupid dreams, certainly none worth dying for. It was speculated whether McCandless was looking for a death wish, or if he was just naive. He definitely was naive, but he also wanted to survive, and he couldn't. He died defeated. It was the shame that made me cry. That, and that his suffering was so beautiful. He had no one--not his mom or dad to hold his hand, no one to stroke his hair. I have premonitions of my own desolate death and all I can do is cry and hope God will hold my hand. He denied God and died by his own stupid hand and He was the only one left looking down in the end. It was over. It was dreadfully over.
I can see my breath, but it is surprisingly not that cold. Maybe the bus holds the heat from my little scrap-made candle pretty well. It puts off a pretty good light with its thick wick in the jar but the light inside is still dim. It is like a cave. I set up my books, put my clothes and food away, take out my contacts. I am alone. Why does it feel different when I am physically alone, removed like this...and yet all those times I felt I was in a void in a crowded bar, with friends, suffering from the vastness of space and choking nothingness? I WANT TO DO GREAT THINGS WITH MY LIFE. And I want it to COUNT for something. I will lie down on my mat and pray my beads until I fall asleep. Then hopefully I will have the discicpline to do it again tomorrow. And then maybe something will seep in, and take over, and consume me until there is nothing left.